MISTAKEN IDENTITY

A PREVIEW

ROBERT M. KERNS

Copyright © 2021 by Robert M. Kerns

Published by Knightsfall Press

All characters, places, and events in this work are fiction. Any resemblance to any person, place, or event is unintentional. No part of this work may be duplicated—in part or in whole—without written consent of the publisher. All rights reserved.

1

The explosion of wood splinters served as my alarm clock that Saturday. Heavy footsteps rushing into the room coincided with the door slamming against its stop. Large, thick hands pulled me off my couch.

I blinked and shook my head. Tried to catch up to the world after such a rude introduction to the day. Two men sized to make NFL linebackers look underweight stood in front of me; their pull-over polo shirts and khakis had to be tailored to fit so well. They each had a hand on one of my shoulders, and the guy on my right held a fist about four inches from my face.

“Who the hell are you guys?” I asked, then lost the fight against a huge yawn. “What time is it?”

“It’s time for you to get a clue, Giff,” the meathead on my left—Thing 1—opined.

“Yeah,” Thing 2—the meathead on my right—added his own witty repartee. “If you want to walk when you’re fifty, drop the Givens case. Nothing but pain and blood for you there. Maybe worse.”

Givens case? I’d never even heard of a Givens case. Then, my half-awake mind caught up to something else. Thing 1 called me ‘Giff.’ Except… that’s not me. Ira ‘Giff’ Giffords had his office three floors up… and in the exact same place as mine on that floor.

Well, shit… these mooks had the wrong guy.

“Uhm, guys?” I said.

They both leaned a fraction closer, their expressions becoming hard, suspicious glares. Thing 2 responded, “Yeah?”

“I’m not Giff. Seriously, guys; I’m not.”

They shared a look. Then, their heads swiveled back to me like turrets. Thing 1 snorted his skepticism, adding, “You don’t really expect us to believe that, do ya? It ain’t like we haven’t heard it before.”

I pointed my thumb over my shoulder to the end table by the couch. “My wallet’s right there, guys. ID and everything.”

“Watch ‘im,” Thing 2 growled as he released me and stomped his way over to the table.

My wallet disappeared in his bear paws, and I heard cards shuffling as he rifled through it.

“Shit,” he said after a moment. “This ain’t Giff. Says he’s Samuel Taylor Colton.”

“This ain’t Giff?” Thing 1 asked.

Thing 2 shook his head as he tossed my wallet back to the end table. “Nope. Boss must’a gave us the wrong address.”

“Uhh… what do we do now?” Thing 1 asked. Clearly, his associate was the brains of the team.

Thing 2 stomped back over to me and drove his right fist into my gut with all the force of a donkey’s kick. Every scrap of air left my lungs in a forced exhalation, and my diaphragm spasmed as they let me collapse back to the couch.

“Remember this warning, Samuel Colton. Stay away from Giff and the Givens case,” Thing 2 intoned as the index finger of the fist that hit me wagged about three inches from the bridge of my nose. Then, he nodded his head toward my wide-open door, and they stomped out.

My eyes settled on the remains of my doorframe as I fought to regain my breath. At least, the pay-out from the Breckenridge case came in yesterday; otherwise, it might be a while before I fixed the door. On the bright side, I breathed on my own again by the time I heard the elevator down the hall ding-ding its arrival.

I leaned back against my couch and rested my head on its high back. Yes, it was ratty. Yes, it was ugly. Its upholstery was an awful green and brown plaid, and I’m pretty sure whoever made it used an ugly tree to get lumber for its frame. But damn if it wasn’t the most comfortable piece of furniture I’d ever encountered. After a few more minutes of rest and recovery, I heaved myself to my feet to venture upstairs. Ira sometimes worked weekends, and I’d hate for him to get blindsided like I was.

As soon as I stepped off the elevator on the ninth floor, I knew something was wrong. The tang of blood in the air was faint… but unmistakable. I ventured down the hall toward Ira’s office, and the unlatched and slightly ajar door confirmed my suspicions. Now, the question became who was bleeding and how bad.

I nudged open Ira’s door with the toe of my shoe, and the smell of blood and worse assaulted my senses. The outer office gleamed, speaking to Ira’s OCD tendencies. Everything—from the reception desk to the chairs for clients to wait—looked fresh from the store’s box. No sign of Ira, but the door to his private office also hung open.

Not good. I could maybe see one of the doors hanging open, if Ira arrived just as the phone rung or something. But it was Saturday. Who expects a PI office to be open on Saturday? The only reason I was in my office was that I didn’t have anywhere else to be. I’d lived there—sleeping on the couch—since the divorce.

My eyes went to the latch in the doorframe. It hung from a few fibers of faux wood, splinters littering the floor.

I gnawed at my lip as I gave the office another once-over with my eyes. I could—and probably should—call the police right now. They wouldn’t enjoy that it was me calling them, but hey… tough rocks. Still, though… if I was going to call the police, I should have something better to report than two open doors, a broken doorframe, and a strong smell of blood, right?

Crossing the outer office, I toed open Ira’s office door and sighed. Ira Giffords—almost a legend in the PI world in some circles—sat in one of his client chairs atop a veritable lake of blood. Someone zip-tied his wrists to the chair’s arms and his ankles to its legs. His chest and face were a mess of blood and nasty wounds. When he blew a bubble in the blood oozing out of his nose, I realized he was still alive.

“Oh, shit,” I gasped and rushed to his side. I grabbed the handset off his desk phone and dialed 911 while I pressed the first two fingers of my other hand to his throat. Yes… a pulse. Weak but there.

I pressed the handset to my ear just in time. “911. What is your emergency?”

I looked at my watch to check the time. 8:52 AM. Then, said, “I have a man here, badly beaten and bleeding. 5547 North Haven Avenue, Suite 904. I need an ambulance and officers. The office has signs of forced entry.”

“Sir, are you safe?” the operator asked.

No, probably not, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. “I’m fine. There’s no one here but us.”

Ira’s eyes fluttered open, and he shook his head. The movement was so slight I almost didn’t notice.

“Too late for me, Sam,” he gasped, his voice faint and tired. “91445. Fortress. Seven. Giv-uhhh…”

His voice trailed off in a death rattle. Would’ve been nice not to know them well enough to recognize one.

“It’s too late,” I told the operator. “I’m pretty sure he just died.”

“Sir, please stay on the line until emergency response arrives,” the operator replied.

I considered the pool of blood beneath the chair and shook my head. “Lady, no offense, but I’m not sure the Archangel Michael could save him.”

I was so, so tempted just to hang up the phone and return to my office. But as much as I wanted to, that wouldn’t be wise. Better to wait and let them try to pin it on me, prove them wrong, and go on with my day. I moved out of the expanding blood pool’s path while I remained on the line with the 911 operator.

Seven minutes from when I checked my watch, a uniform officer came through the outer door, his sidearm leading the way.

WHAT’S NEXT?

“Mistaken Identity” is available across multiple storefronts.

Click here to learn more.

THE WORLDS OF ROBERT M. KERNS

For a complete and accurate listing of all publications, both currently available and forthcoming, please visit Knightsfall Press.

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https://knightsfall.press/books

SO… WHO’S THE AUTHOR?

Robert M. Kerns (or Rob if you ever meet him in person) is a geek, and he claims that label proudly. Most of his geekiness revolves around Information Technology (IT), having over fifteen years in the industry; within IT, he especially prefers Servers and Networks, and he often makes the claim that his residence has a better data infrastructure than some businesses.

Beyond IT, Rob enjoys Science Fiction and Fantasy of (almost) all stripes. He is a voracious reader, with his favorite books too numerous to list.

Rob has been writing for over 20 years, published his first novel in 2018, and has no plans to stop any time soon.

Connect with Rob at robertmkerns.com.

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